


Sea Foam

by isquinnabel



Series: Hunger Games Universe AUs/Crossovers [3]
Category: Anne of Green Gables - L. M. Montgomery, Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Avoxes, Crossover, Gen, The Capitol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-05-06 20:11:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14655317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isquinnabel/pseuds/isquinnabel
Summary: In which a young redheaded girl meets the man who stole her voice.





	Sea Foam

**Author's Note:**

> Introductory quote is from Hans Christian Andersen’s _The Little Mermaid_. This fic is my fill for intoabar 2018 – my characters are Anne Shirley and Coriolanus Snow.
> 
> The Hunger Games universe was never going to be kind to Anne, but when I was assigned President Snow the details underwent a considerable revamp. I considered making her a victor but I couldn’t work out how to write an Anne that manages to win the Games! So, this is where I ended up. Poor Anne.

 

 

* * *

_“But if you take away my voice,” said the little mermaid, “what is left for me?”_

* * *

 

 

Anne dreams of the sea.

Overnight, she has no control over her dreams. But when she’s awake and polishing silver, or carrying platters of delicate cakes, or cleaning the mess left by a crowd of gamemakers, her carefully blank eyes hide visions of a rolling, restless, blue-green mass.

She’s never seen the sea in her life, but the pictures in her head are rich and vivid. On this particular afternoon, she serves elaborate drinks and canapés in the tribute center’s most ornate room. Anne turns the colorful items on her tray into living creatures; glittering coral, speckled fish, misty blue clumps of seaweed. A bright pink cocktail becomes a flock of seahorses that weave her hair into masterful braids. When she lives underwater, her hair floats dreamily around her, and braids are necessary to keep it under control. The seahorses are deft workers, but they’re not her slaves; they’re her friends.

Anne keeps her mind partially present, to ensure she reacts promptly to orders while floating through the ocean’s crystalline depths. President Snow is in the room today, and his presence makes the air feel almost rigid; maintaining a daydream is both more difficult and more important than usual. But, thankfully, he does not address her. The gamemakers manage his desires, and place orders on his behalf. She does what she is told, but she doesn’t want to hear discussions of arena design, or new muttations, or optimal placement of the cornucopia. So, she chooses not to. The meeting is a long one, and her legs are aching by the time the men begin to leave. 

President Snow rises from his armchair. Anne keeps her head bowed, but she’s aware of his movement. He crosses the room, slowly and deliberately, to the window next to Anne’s assigned position, almost standing shoulder-to-shoulder. He gazes out the window, studying the manicured lawns and topiaries, while Anne has her back to the wall. It is not her place to enjoy the view.

Anne has never been in such close proximity to this man. His scent is overpowering, and it cuts through the gentle world inside her head. Anne has spent her life amongst the smell of nature – the good and the bad, both subtle and intense – and something about the floral-scented cloud wafting from his person feels horribly wrong. Her imagination tries frantically to regain its traction, but it’s too late. President Snow’s mere presence was hard enough to imagine away, but his scent now fills her nose and her lungs and her brain. She is completely cut off from her fantasy retreat. Who she is, where she is, the flesh-and-blood reality of the man who put her here – she feels them all like a knife to the throat.

When he begins to speak, she assumes at first that he’s addressing somebody else. Anne is not to be spoken to unless it’s to give an order, and she’s grown used to the push-pull tides of conversation washing over her. But everyone else has left the room. And the rules don’t apply to President Snow.

“The beef has been declining in quality,” he murmurs. “Substandard cattle, I presume.”

Her muscles tense. Her gut tells her that this is not a threat; it’s a cruel game. He wants her to think of home.

“If the beef is poor, the most accomplished chef can only achieve so much. Don’t you agree, Miss Shirley?”

Home had been a harsh place, but it wasn’t without its silver linings. An image of herself singing quietly at sunrise, helping Matthew move the herd to a new paddock, flutters unexpectedly across her mind. She closes her eyes, clenches her fists, and forces herself to forget.

 _I am the youngest daughter of the Sea King,_ she thinks, keeping her head bowed. _I am of noble birth, and you cannot hurt me._

Anne can sense the grim smile on his face. Her silent reactions haven’t gone unnoticed. The air is still thick with the heavy scent he carries with him. He doesn’t say anything else, but he holds his stance a little longer while she stands frozen, holding her breath, willing her hands to stop shaking.

When he eventually leaves the room, he takes the acrid cloud of perfume with him. The air clears and, with great relief, she lets herself begin to breathe. Anne closes her eyes, and sinks back into a world of her own creation; the one thing he can never take.


End file.
